Garfunkel drops a chord
and it bandies about until shards
slice the air like a muted whisper.
Old friends like darkness, shroud.
No crowds, no crying out louds,
no opinions voiced or foisted upon us.
I take a scrap for a souvenir,
and use it to inspire my next tirade.
Visions softly weeping in
their vacuumed void seem annoyed.
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017
My “scrap” line used: Silence falls and breaks